


Close Combat

by raritysdiamonds



Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Biting, Clothed Sex, Hate Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, inappropriate use of Zim’s PAK legs, or perhaps the most appropriate use, there’s a lot going on here idk, they are 18+ or the irken equivalent!!, you were expecting porn but it was me AWKWARD FEELINGS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:22:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24288859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raritysdiamonds/pseuds/raritysdiamonds
Summary: “Wh-what are you waiting for?” his foe responds, defiant despite his very much compromised position. His eyes are wide with anticipation and dark with desire, unwavering from Zim’s with a too-familiar spark of challenge.“Do it.”And Zimcould- it would be so easy to tear him apart like this, make him scream and bleed and writhe in agony. So easy that a mere Irken smeet could probably do it, given the correct tools, and maybe that - rather than any foolish mercy - is precisely why he doesn’t. It wouldn’t be as satisfying as watching Dib gasp and groan and tremble under his touch, half-lidded eyes fixated on Zim, only Zim, becauseonlyZim can give him what he so desperately craves. No human could ever satisfy his burning curiosity and desperation and hunger formore, more than his ignorant world is willing to acknowledge or accept. He doesn’t need them: he needs Zim, maybe more than anyone ever has.(The user fights the target up close without guarding itself. This also lowers the user's Defense and Sp. Def stats.)
Relationships: Dib/Zim (Invader Zim)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 171
Collections: Dick or Treat - Scrohto Region





	Close Combat

**Author's Note:**

> how do you do, fellow alienfuckers? 👽 my contribution(?) to the Dick or Treat challenge, bc apparently Pokémon moves are excellent inspiration for smut! There were a couple moves I was considering, but this one just seemed too perfect, the description of which is: 
> 
> The user fights the target up close without guarding itself. This also lowers the user's Defense and Sp. Def stats.
> 
> and yeah!! This is...obviously way less fluffy than anything I usually write lmao, but I had fun with it and I hope you do too~ Thanks for reading and as always I’d love to hear your thoughts! <3

There’s something uniquely satisfying, Zim has discovered, about sinking his teeth into Dib’s flesh. 

Not the  _ taste _ of him, certainly not; human meat is as revolting as any other, the metallic tang of blood burning his delicate tongue if he bites too hard. But he can’t help but relish in the yelp of pain he tears from his enemy’s throat; the way he struggles and jerks, relinquishing whatever feeble hold he had on Zim; even the sight of the reddened indentations on Dib’s skin, still lingering there the next day at skool like miniature trophies proclaiming Zim’s superiority.

It starts by accident, or rather some typically ingenious quick thinking on Zim’s part, because Irken soldiers do not fight like Dib does. They use their PAKs, their weapons, their lasers, cold and efficient and precise in the art of war. They were never trained to  _ leap _ at their opponents, tackling them to the floor in a chaotic tangle of limbs, fists, knees and teeth and claws grappling for control of some device or other. It’s a natural reaction to bite Dib’s hand when it has the audacity to shove against Zim’s face, effective enough to escalate into biting wherever he can reach: his arm, his leg, his neck, his ear, even his hair (which tastes disgusting and makes Zim gag; not recommended). He quickly discovers more vulnerable areas, new and amusing noises he can get the dirt-monkey to make.

At this stage, there’s nothing accidental about it. 

“You won’t get away with this, Zim,” Dib grits out as he struggles against Zim’s PAK legs, which - as usual - is completely incorrect. Zim wasn’t even scheduled to scheme at this particular hour, but his nemesis is relentless in staking out his base, day after day, almost as if he wants to be caught. As if he wants  _ this _ , this eternal push and pull, a battle of wills as much as anything else. Little has changed, except that Dib’s  _ grown _ , to Zim’s infuriation. The fool-boy probably thinks that gives him an advantage, but he’s still careless, clumsy with his longer arms and legs. He’s certainly no match for Zim’s wiry but perfectly formed physique, let alone his superior Irken technology. 

Zim scoffs, grabbing Dib’s chin to force him to look up at his elevated position as he pushes him against the wall, PAK legs on either side keeping him trapped there. “Oh, predictably pathetic Dib-stink,” he hums, “how can such a giant head fail to grasp the simplest of concepts? Zim will get away with this…” He rakes his claws down the human’s neck, making him shudder, “for as long as you keep coming back for it.”

“Just - shut  _ up  _ already,” Dib growls, lunging forwards suddenly to attack Zim’s mouth; one of the more unorthodox battle tactics he’s adopted, likely because Zim has always found this “kissing” to be among the most repulsive of idiotic human rituals. But this is a battle, one he has no intention of losing: a furious, heated clash of lips and teeth and tongues, as deeply unpleasant as it is bizarrely intoxicating. Dib’s tongue is wider, much clumsier in its attempts to plunder Zim’s mouth, and he retaliates by coiling his more dexterous one around it like a snake, squeezing tight. 

Caught unawares, Dib jerks back, coughing and gagging while Zim snickers in victory as their mouths disconnect with a lewd wet sound. Before he can gloat, however, Dib grabs his antennae and pulls as if he’s trying to remove them from Zim’s head; Zim squawks and hisses, the burning sensation ripping through him as he wrenches his head away. 

“Sensitive spot, huh?” Dib grins up at him with utterly unjustified smugness, the knowing glint illuminated by his ocular-correctors making Zim’s blood boil and his squeedlyspooch constrict in all the wrong ways. The sting of allowing his opponent to discover a vulnerable spot throbs in his tender antennae, lingering in places lower and deeper.

For  _ that _ , he must pay. 

While Dib’s distracted, Zim curls a PAK leg around his ankle and tugs, forcing a startled yelp from his foe as he falls to his back on the unforgiving floor. More legs extend themselves to hold down his wrists, restraining him securely so he can only squirm in Zim’s grasp like the inferior worm he is. 

Zim almost wishes his Tallest could see him now, see him establish his indisputable superiority as he hovers over his captive prey, see the way Dib  _ looks _ at him, his face flushed and lips swollen, eyes burning into Zim’s with unadulterated hatred, fear, and - something else…? 

His gaze travels south from Dib’s face to the conspicuous bulge in his pants, and he arches a nonexistent eyebrow. Zim is familiar with the human reproductive system, much as he wished to bleach those ‘sex-ed’ lessons from his brain - a positively prehistoric practice, outdated on Irk for generations since they installed the cloning facilities. Helpless as he is to hide it, Dib is aroused...because of this. Because of  _ Zim _ .

How disgusting. Humiliating, really. 

Zim prods it with the heel of his boot and Dib lets out a choked moan, like no noise Zim has ever heard him make before. His hips jerk erratically, unable to either shrink away or arch further into the touch. 

“How pathetic you stink-beasts are, your inferior flesh betraying all your twisted desires,” he observes, voice cold, concealing any rising fascination as he toys with Dib. He rubs him slowly but not gently, watching his breath quicken, how he bites his lip as he struggles to hold back his reactions. “Foolish, to leave such a  _ sensitive _ and  _ vital _ organ so exposed, don’t you think? I could tear  _ this _ off…” He wraps a dexterous leg around the bulge and squeezes until Dib cries out, something almost like a sob wracking his body, “and feed it to you.”

“Wh-what are you waiting for?” his foe responds, defiant despite his very much compromised position. His eyes are wide with anticipation and dark with desire, unwavering from Zim’s with a too-familiar spark of challenge. “ _ Do it _ .”

And Zim  _ could _ \- it would be so easy to tear him apart like this, make him scream and bleed and writhe in agony. So easy that a mere Irken smeet could probably do it, given the correct tools, and maybe that - rather than any foolish mercy - is precisely why he doesn’t. It wouldn’t be as satisfying as watching Dib gasp and groan and tremble under his touch, half-lidded eyes fixated on Zim, only Zim, because  _ only _ Zim can give him what he so desperately craves. No human could ever satisfy his burning curiosity and desperation and hunger for  _ more _ , more than his ignorant world is willing to acknowledge or accept. He doesn’t need them: he needs Zim, maybe more than anyone ever has.

Maybe more than anyone ever will - 

That thought - false, traitorous,  _ defective _ \- makes Zim growl, because  _ he _ doesn’t need Dib. He doesn’t need to bite at the vulnerable skin of his neck, dragging his teeth along the curve of his throat (Adam’s Apple, he remembers distantly, which begs the question of what this so-called Adam is and what he’s doing sticking apples in  _ his _ Dib’s throat). 

“As  _ if  _ I would defile my base with your worthless blood,” he hisses, claws squeezing around Dib’s throat in time with the PAK legs pumping his erection, eliciting increasingly desperate noises. Dib struggles to buck his hips, chasing any kind of friction, but Zim punishes him with another leg pushing him to the floor. “Ah, ah! You will release your  _ disgusting _ fluids when and  _ only _ if Zim grants it.” He contemplates how long he could keep Dib like this, baring his teeth in a predatory smirk. “But you may beg for the privilege.” 

“ _ Fuck _ you,” Dib spits back, and despite his audacity Zim almost snickers, because yes,  _ this _ is his - this is the Dib he knows and loathes so utterly, and he wouldn’t be worth the time to take apart otherwise. “You’re not gonna win this time just by - ah -“ His breath catches as Zim presses down on his breeding-organ, visibly straining to get the words out, “f-fighting -  _ dirty… _ ” 

Zim, for once, says nothing; he retracts all but the legs pinning Dib’s arms and legs, earning a pitiful whine from the loss of contact, and lowers himself a few inches from his face.

“No,” he says, cupping his cheek almost tenderly, “you want Zim to fuck _you_.” The crude Earth term for intercourse tastes strange on his tongue, but it has a good bite, one that makes Dib flinch and his cock visibly twitch. “That’s what _this_ has always been about, isn’t it? Do you take me for a _fool_ , always watching with those beady little eyes and your _perverted_ little cameras? Imagining I don’t _know_ about the things that go through your _filthy, disgusting, depraved_ little Dib-mind?” He slides a hand up through his hair and yanks back his ridiculous not-antennae, taking a moment the tooth and claw marks on his neck; Dib gasps and moans unashamedly, past the point of attempting to deny it or conceal how much Zim’s scathing words are affecting him, his organ straining through his pants.

Zim can continue to ignore the heat steadily building between his own legs, resist the urge to rub himself against one of his PAK legs to relieve some of the tension when Dib groans out “ _ Zim _ ” like he’s dying, like Zim is his lifeblood ( _ he is _ ). He finds himself briefly torn between the desire to toy with his prey, to bring him so close to the edge only to hold him there until he’s a whimpering, pleading mess, and the need to see him come undone just like this, with nothing but Zim’s PAK legs holding him down and Zim’s claws biting into his scalp.

“Zim,” he whines again, hair sticking to his face with sweat, disgustingly, beautifully disheveled, “fuck, I need - please…”

“Yes,” Zim breathes, a shiver vibrating through him at the sound of his name on his enemy’s lips, begging for him. “Say my name, Dib-slave.” He’s almost close enough for Dib to feel his own excitement, soaking through the thin material of his leggings, Zim’s eyes glowing with the fire of hunger, domination, desire. “ _ Tell me who you belong to _ \- and come apart.”

And that does it: it’s barely a gasp, almost a whisper, like the breath has been stolen from his lungs, but Dib could never cry out any other name when his eyes roll back in his head. His body spasms with ecstasy, jerking and shuddering until he finally goes limp in his bonds. The crotch of his pants is completely soaked with his human fluids, Zim notes with a mix of distaste and smugness; Dib makes a weak noise of protest when he gives the now-soft organ a curious nudge with his boot. 

There’s no fight left in him now, nothing more for Zim to take; he uncurls his PAK limbs from Dib’s arms and legs, retracting them and lowering himself to the floor. Still, Dib remains where he is a few moments longer, his chest heaving as his breathing gradually returns to normal until he pushes himself up on shaky elbows. 

“...Fuck,” he huffs out, tilting his head as he meets Zim’s gaze; his hair is sticking up all over the place, the post-orgasmic glaze of his eyes fading into almost comical confusion. The silence no longer filled with gasps and grunts hangs in the air between them like a foul stench, unnerving in a way Zim can’t adequately explain. “Did - did we really just…?”

Zim is uncomfortably aware of the persistent throb between his legs, as startling as it is irritating. He hates how it makes it harder to concentrate, makes him feel somehow exposed, despite their positions just moments ago - he hates  _ Dib _ , more than anything, for causing him to feel these feelings. 

“Get out.”

“Zim…” Dib speaks his name so differently as he struggles to his feet, the heat of lust and anger cooled to something softer, less certain, infinitely more unsettling when he reaches out - offering  _ what _ ? Zim cannot accept, hissing and recoiling because as  _ if _ he would even consider allowing the human to touch his flawless Irken form with those big, filthy, meaty hands, no matter how much he begged.

“I  _ said get out of Zim’s base! _ ” He smacks away Dib’s outstretched hand, glaring at the surprised ghost on his shirt instead of his face. “I’ll...destroy you later, or something.”

Zim feels only relief and not the slightest twinge of disappointment when Dib does as he orders without a final word, having half expected him to stand his ground and fight like they normally would. He definitely doesn’t think about Dib watching him on those accursed cameras when he slides two claws inside himself, or see his enemy’s eyes full of need as his toes curl and his antennae quiver, and the moan that reverberates through his base when he finally brings himself to release certainly doesn’t sound anything like his nemesis’ name.

Because Zim doesn’t need Dib: he just likes knowing that his human will always come back to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Feedback is always appreciated <3


End file.
